by Sarah Ash
“Fine.” She let go of his wrist. “Follow the old chivalrous code if you must. But I say that we're making a grave mistake in not investigating this matter further.”
The chanting of the monks of Kerjhenezh filled the whitewashed dome of the chapel with a dark sonority that sent little shivers through Jagu's whole body. The sound resonated to the very core of his being. The ancient hymns to Saint Sergius exuded a raw, untrained energy that, though they had nothing of the refined beauty or complexity of the choral singing at Saint Meriadec's or the cathedral of Saint Eu-stache, spoke of the harsh truths of life and death. Many of the monks had beards as white as the snow on the jagged mountaintops beyond the forest, yet their voices were strong and deep-throated, filled with a vigor that belied their years. There was no organ to support them, just the occasional ringing of bronze-voiced bells.
Candles of ochre beeswax made from Brother Osinin's hives filled the dark Azhkendi night with light and gave off a musky, honeyed smoke, warming the cold air. Their flames gilded the fading colors of the frescoes depicting the life of the saint, making the gold leaf of his halo and the feathery wings of the guardian angels gleam.
This is just how it must have been in Sergius's time. The soft glow of the candles dimmed, and Jagu blinked the tears away unashamedly. This was what he had been trying to explain to Celestine in the courtyard earlier. This was why he had joined the Commanderie in the first place; to be a warrior for good against the forces of evil.
Why didn't she understand?
Even here he could not stop thinking about her.
“Blessed Sergius, help me to learn to live with this temptation,” he prayed silently. “Show me how to be true to my vows.”
Had Sergius ever fallen in love? If so, then Argantel's chronicles of his friend's life left no mention of it. But Mhir, the patron saint of the Allegondan Commanderie, had given his life to save Azilis, the woman he loved.
Jagu thought that he had come to terms with his feelings for Celestine. Like all Guerriers, they had both taken a vow of celibacy when they joined the Commanderie. Yet the deeper they journeyed into Azhkendir, the more his willpower had begun to weaken. They had undertaken many missions for the Commanderie, yet this was the first on which they had been alone.
Is this a test? Is this what it really means to try to tread the same path as Saint Sergius? That without temptation to resist, there's no chance of growing spiritually stronger?
Or have I been deceiving myself all this time?
“This is excellent work, Kaspar.” The Emperor leafed through the information that Linnaius had extracted from the monastery library, his eyes alight. He had never lost the boyish enthusiasm that Linnaius had found so engaging when he first began to work for the royal house of Tielen. But the Magus was far from happy about Eugene's obsession with summoning a Drakhaoul of his own. “Now that you have discovered the location of the Serpent Gate, what's to stop us going to search for it?”
“Eugene, please read again—with great attention—that page that I translated from Lord Argantel's The Life of the Blessed Sergius.”
“Very well.” Eugene began to read aloud. “‘Prince Nagazdiel must never be set free. For if this prison is breached, the darkness will cover your world in perpetual night and he and his kindred will lay waste to the earth.
“‘And then the seraph spoke to Sergius, saying, “To that end, the Warriors of Heaven have put a seal on the Door to the Realm of Shadows, that can only be breached by a crime so horrible that none would dare to undertake it. For only by the sacrifice of the Emperor's children in that far-distant place can that Door ever be opened again and the dread Prince Nagazdiel released. And no mortal would dare stoop to such a base and inhuman act.”’ “He looked up at Linnaius. “Surely this is nothing more than one of those ancient prophecies that sound doom-laden, yet are merely a warning to the curious?” He laughed. “Even if they could break the cypher, who would go such lengths as to try to kidnap my daughter, Karila, and transport her thousands of leagues away to some obscure island that may—or may not—exist?”
Linnaius sighed. Eugene was right. The text had lain hidden for centuries; who else had the skills to decipher it, let alone make use of the information? Yet still he wished that Eugene would be content with what he had already achieved and not constantly yearn for more.
CHAPTER 4
“This mission has been a failure.” Celestine threw down her heavy pack. “We've traveled all this way only to return empty-handed.”
“Not entirely so.” Jagu held up the stoneware bottle Brother Beekeeper had given him as a parting gift.
“The monastery's life-preserving liqueur? Strong enough to strip paint, I'll wager.” They had endured bedbugs, inedible food, and all kinds of weather on their quest, only to be rewarded with a bottle of the local eau-de-vie.
“It's disappointing that Abbot Yephimy was unwilling to part with Sergius's crook,” said Jagu distantly, “but not entirely unexpected.”
“Disappointing?” Sometimes Jagu's refusal to show his feelings could be so irritating.
“Remember what the Maistre told us: Use every opportunity to record the lay of the land for future reference. Now that we know the monastery from the inside, we can plan our next move.”
“To steal the crook?” She was surprised that Jagu would even suggest such a thing.
“The monks have lived under the Drakhaoul's shadow for so long that they have become blind to its powers.” He took a sip from his water bottle. “They don't realize the danger they've set loose on the rest of the world in driving it from Lord Gavril's body.”
“But just the two of us? Without backup?”
He shook his head. “Of course not. We'll need a whole detachment to pull this off.”
“A detachment of pilgrims?” The image was so odd that it almost made her smile.
“And a swift cutter waiting in the cove nearby for a quick—” He broke off, as if listening.
“What is it?”
She only caught the flash of movement out of the corner of one eye. Jagu gave a muffled grunt and crumpled to the ground.
“Jag—” Her scream was stifled as someone clamped a hand over her mouth. Next moment, she was forced to her knees. Her unseen attacker pulled back her hood and, grabbing her by the chin, yanked her head upward. She heard him let out a low whistle of surprise—and then, with brutal swiftness, he pushed her onto her back on the rough ground. She was aware as she fell that another man was ripping open her bag, searching for anything worth stealing, she guessed. The book. The precious book was concealed inside, wrapped in a spare shirt.
“Faie!” She tried to call to her for help, but the pressure of the man's hand only increased. The fall had knocked the breath from her body. Her assailant forced himself on top of her, trying to subdue her with the weight of his body. He had guessed she was not a boy. She fought and struggled as, with his free hand, he tugged at her clothes. He was too strong for her.
Dizzy, angry, she attempted to knee him in the groin—but her desperate struggles only seemed to excite him the more. She could not even reach the little knife she wore tucked into her boot. And she could feel his breath against her throat, hot and panting, as he fumbled beneath her cloak, trying to tug down her breeches.
“Faie!” she cried again in terror. And suddenly the twilit glade was filled with a dazzle of shimmering light. Her attacker paused. The moment's distraction gave Celestine her chance. Up came her knee again, jabbing hard into his groin with all the fury she could muster. He fell back, gasping. And in that moment, she felt the Faie's protecting arms around her. Bathed in the pure, white light of her guardian spirit, she arose, staring down at her attacker. The Faie gave her strength, the Faie's power blazed through her eyes, flowing through her body until she felt as if she were glowing with aethyrial radiance.
Slowly, she raised her hand, pointing accusingly at the robber. She could see him clearly at last, crouching like a beast at bay, his face twisted, his bl
oodshot eyes bulging. She took a step toward him and saw, to her satisfaction, that he cringed away from her, one shaking hand rising to shield his eyes from her brilliance.
She heard his accomplice give an incoherent shout of fear. She took another step toward her would-be violator. Her fingers tingled with the Faie's power.
“Celestine, no!” Jagu's hoarse voice broke through the trance. “Don't do it!”
“He deserves to die.” She heard another voice, clear and hard as ice. It seemed to issue from her lips.
“You promised me.” She saw Jagu slowly push himself to his knees. His head drooped. “You gave me your word.” He staggered to his feet, leaning against a tree trunk.
“You're all right.” She slowly lowered her arm. A surge of relief flooded through her and the cold, murderous rage melted away; all she wanted was to run to his side.
Her attacker began to crawl away into the shadows; the accomplice had already fled.
One lurching step at a time, Jagu made his way toward her. Blood dripped from a jagged gash on the side of his head. His arms reached out and held her. Suddenly she felt faint and sick, and she clung to him as if he were a rock in a pounding sea. The aethyric light slowly dwindled as the Faie silently faded back into the book.
Jagu felt Celestine trembling as he held her, her face pressed against his shoulder. Dizzy from the blow, he closed his eyes, trying to calm his agitated mind, to think logically.
She's safe. That was all that mattered. But no thanks to him.
“I'm so sorry. I was careless,” he said. “I let my guard down.”
“It wasn't your fault, Jagu,” she said, her voice muffled in the thick folds of his robes. “They prey on poor pilgrims. They're scum.”
A moment ago, she had dominated the glade, her eyes blazing with light, possessed by her guardian spirit. Now she was just a frightened, vulnerable girl again. He didn't want to admit it to himself, but the guardian spirit had saved them both. If it hadn't appeared to protect Celestine, he could not bear to think what the robbers might have done to her as he lay unconscious among the tangled tree roots. And yet were anyone to learn the secret of her innocuous-looking Lives of the Saints, the Inquisition would not hesitate to destroy her.
Celestine wanted to wash herself clean, to rid herself of the taint of her attacker's pawing hands, the lingering stink of his sweat, but Jagu's wound needed treating first. She went over to the stream and doused her handkerchief in the cold water, wringing it out. Then she began to dab at the congealing blood.
“What did he hit you with? A tree branch? It must have been quite a blow to lay you out cold.” She chattered away, intent on distracting him, aware of the need to distract herself too. “It's swelling up. You'll have an impressive bruise there soon. At least the bleeding's stopped; it's quite a superficial wound. But he must have whacked you pretty hard.” There were some basic medical supplies in her bag. She took out her little pot of arnica cream and smoothed some onto the contusion.
“You're going to have a headache,” she said. “If you can get a fire going, I'll brew you an infusion of willow bark to dampen the pain. We don't have to worry about catching our supper tonight; we've plenty of cheese, honey, and bread left from what the brothers gave us.”
“The Staff!” Jagu started up. “Is the Staff safe?”
In all the confusion of the attack, they had both forgotten their sacred treasure. But in the twilight, Jagu found it still lying where he had left it. The robbers had been after more valuable plunder than a priest's staff.
Jagu threw pinecones on the fire and as they burned, sending up blue smoke into the night, their strong, aromatic scent seemed to cleanse the air. Celestine sat hunched, cradling her mug of tea in both hands, gazing into the crackling flames.
What was going through her mind? She looked so distant, her gaze so abstracted that he wanted to put his arm around her, to comfort her. But the danger was past and he no longer had any excuse. Yet every time he remembered how she had clung to him, her body pressed close to his own, he felt an ache of desire so strong it almost overwhelmed him.
“Why is Linnaius so interested in the Drakhaoul?” she said suddenly. So she had been thinking about the Magus again. “Lord Gavril is the Emperor's prisoner, condemned to life imprisonment in the Iron Tower. He's no longer a threat.” She tossed on another pinecone, watching it flare into bright flame in the heart of the blaze. “And to use his Dark Arts to pry secrets from that chained book in the monastery library… it stank of sorcery in there.”
Jagu forced himself to ignore the confusion of feelings twisting his heart. Tracing and defeating the Drakhaoul was the aim of their mission, maybe the most dangerous one they had ever undertaken together.
“Yet if the Drakhaoul were to take a new mortal host, then that man would be a real threat to the Emperor,” he said. “Eugene barely escaped with his life from their last encounter. He'll bear the scars to the grave.”
“But the Drakhaoul can only meld with one of the Nagarian family.” She turned to look at him, the flames staining her pale face with fiery shadows. “Or is that just a legend? Could it meld with anyone?”
“If Eugene wants the Drakhaoul's powers for himself, then Francia is in real danger.” Jagu prodded at the fire with a stick, sending a sizzle of sparks up into the starry dark. “He's conquered the five princedoms of Old Rossiya; why would he stop there? His agents must know that our navy is half the size of his northern fleet… and no match for his alchymical weapons.”
“But if we arrest Linnaius,” she said, her voice low, “Eugene's in-genieurs will soon find it impossible to continue to manufacture alchymical weapons.”
“Our mission is to destroy the Drakhaoul, not to go after Linnaius,” he said sternly. “No matter what our personal desires may be, we must obey the Maistre's orders.”
To his surprise, she let out a little giggle. “Oh, Jagu, must you always be so punctilious? We're not at the Forteresse now.” He saw her adding another dash of the monks’ liqueur to her tea.
“Go easy there, Celestine,” he said, reaching for the flask. “A little too much of that stuff and you'll wake up with a pounding headache.”
“You're such a spoilsport,” she said, snatching the flask away and dangling it just out of his reach. “If you want it, you'll have to come and get it.”
He made a lunge and missed. Laughing triumphantly, she took another long sip of her tea.
“Give that here!” He lunged again, catching hold of the flask. But she wouldn't let go and he ended up almost falling into her lap.
“Ask nicely, Jagu.” Her breath was sweet with the gentian liqueur. Was she drunk? Her cheeks were flushed in the firelight and she was looking at him with a teasing, provocative smile.
“Please.” He knelt beside her.
“On one condition, then.” Her speech was becoming slurred.
“You have a little more too.” She uncorked the flask and held it up to his lips; the liqueur poured out, trickling down his chin.
“Enough!” he said, trying to wrest the flask from her hands. In the tussle, she fell backward and he found himself lying sprawled on top of her. The flask rolled away across the dried leaves.
In the chilly Arkhelskoye tavern, he had managed to restrain himself. But now his self-restraint suddenly snapped and he pressed his mouth to hers. He heard her let out a muffled sound, more like surprise than protest.
What am I doing? Panicked, he pushed her away from him.
“Why did you stop?” she murmured. Her lids were drooping. “That was nice…”
Because if he didn't stop immediately, he'd never be able to hold himself back.
She nestled her head against his shoulder, like a sleepy, trusting child.
Taking advantage of her when she's had too much to drink? I'd never forgive myself.
When they boarded the Dame Blanche, Captain Peillac handed Jagu a sealed letter bearing the Commanderie's crest.
“It seems we have been engaged to per
form before the Emperor and his new bride in Mirom.” Jagu passed Celestine the message.
“‘The ship will put in at the port of Khazan, where you will disembark and receive further instructions,’” she read. “What does the Maistre want us to do in Muscobar? What can have happened while we've been away?”
But Jagu seemed in no mood to talk; he was busy transcribing the pencil sketches he had done aboard Chaikin's boat to make a rough map of the coastline between Arkhelskoye and Seal Cove.
“Must you do that now?” Celestine asked, kicking her heels against the wooden side of the bunk. “Can't this wait until we reach dry land?”
“We need something to show for this mission,” he said, not even glancing up from his work. His face was drawn in a frown of what she assumed to be concentration. “I don't like to return empty-handed …”
So his simmering moodiness was caused by their failure to secure the golden crook? “The Maistre will understand. He knew that the monks were unlikely to hand over their prized relic. At least we've learned enough to prepare for a return visit.” No, there had to be more to it than that. There was something else troubling him and, knowing Jagu, he was likely to keep brooding over it for days rather than share his fears with her. She tried a change of subject.
“I hope my hair will have grown enough to look presentable at court. Perhaps I'll have to buy a wig!”
“At least you can still practice,” muttered Jagu. “I can't remember the last time I touched a keyboard. I'll need to lock myself in a music room when we reach Mirom. Maistre de Joyeuse always used to say—” He broke off. “I'm sorry.”
“It's all right, Jagu.” His comment had been entirely spontaneous. “You know it's better to talk of him, to keep him alive that way.” She smiled, although her heart still ached whenever she thought of Henri. “In fact, I was going to suggest that we perform ‘October Seas’ at the recital. With words by Mirom's favorite poet, the Empress and her court will love it.”
